Crystals in the Storm Glass
by Wellingtonboots
Summary: After a disastrous reunion, Sherlock and John find themselves becoming flatmates once more. When Irene Adler asks them to solve an international espionage case, Sherlock sees a chance to possess the one thing he's always wanted: John. Dark!Sherlock.
1. Prologue Part 1

Series: Firestorm over London – Book 1

**Title: Crystals in the Storm Glass**

**Chapter: Prologue part 1**

**Summary: **After a disastrous reunion, Sherlock and John inadvertently find themselves becoming flatmates once more. When Irene Adler asks them to solve an international espionage case, Sherlock is willing to risk everything to win back John's admiration and love.

Genre: Action/Adventure

Rating: PG-13

Main Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler, Mycroft Holmes, "Anthea", Harry Pearce (Spooks), Erin Watt (Spooks),

**AN: This is part one of the prologue to the main story. It sets the scene and contains the important events that are very important to the rest of the story.**

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><p><strong>Eight months before Chapter 1<strong>

**The Dog and Duck Pub, Hammersmith, London**

John sat in the smoky bar sipping his pint and causally sweeping the other patrons with a trained military eye. The person he was supposed to meet had not appeared yet but a strange nagging feeling of unease was beginning to build.

The bar was a typical working man's establishment that had been hastily overhauled to cater for other demographics. The greasy beer stained tables each had a crystal vase filled with fake orchids glued to the centre and the new chairs made from fake mahogany and red leather looked even more out of place. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, suffocating the patrons with a thick almost translucent haze of grey smoke.

_It was nice to know that No Smoking could be interpreted so many different ways. _

His _date_ was over an hour late but John was enjoying the atmosphere of the bar and despite persistent inhalation of carcinogens, he was beginning to feel a bit more human. The evening shift in A&E on a Monday was anything but pleasant and added to that the emotion turmoil and paranoia that had been plaguing him last week was taking its toll.

Drinking a generous gulp of beer, he relaxed back into the comfortable leather chair and wondered if he could be bothered to get up and buy a second pint. The barman was eyeing him beadily from over the bar, and having occupied the best spot in the establishment for over two hours, John was beginning to feel more like a parasite than a customer. In front of him, a young couple barely above the legal drinking age were downing brightly coloured shots that stank of artificial fruit flavouring.

John was beginning to feel a dull haziness settling like cobwebs over his mind. It had been a long 12 hours and frankly he no longer cared whether his internet "friend" bothered to show up. The smoky atmosphere was interfering with his vision and even the young couple in their garish garments were beginning to look grey and blurry around the edges. Perhaps it was time to call it a night and write off his chance of getting any sexual gratification.

As he tried to stand up, his legs wobbled unsurely and John ended up sitting back down again with a heavy thud.

_Drinking on an empty stomach would do that you,_

He hadn't eaten anything since the morning and then it was only a cereal bar scoffed hastily in between tending to a bleeding gastric ulcer and a severed femoral artery.

_Can't hold my drink as well as I used to,_

He was suddenly, inexplicably reminded of the time he had been drinking with Stamford four weeks ago. He had almost lost consciousness and Stamford, being a doctor, had embarrassingly dragged John into Bart's A&E where his own nurses had taken care of his sorry backside in a private side room so as to not utterly ruin his reputation.

He wondered if the splitting headache and sympathetic looks had been worth the four hours of mindless bliss. For the first time in 18 months, John Watson had been able to stop think about _Sherlock Holmes_.

Even when the man had been _dead_, his spirit lived on inside John's mind and his own internal monologue was hijacked by Sherlock's voice. His very own inner _Sherlock_ accompanied him everywhere. Inevitably the whole uncomfortable mental state had sent him running for a therapist, who simply reassured him that hearing Sherlock's voice inside his head was a natural part of grieving. But it wasn't natural; it felt like a Sherlock was haunting his mind and pointedly refusing to allow John the luxury of moving on.

He hadn't wanted to move on after Sherlock died, partly because he didn't want to believe a life so brilliant could end so tragically but after 6 months even Sarah had lost patience with his increasing wild theories. She had gone so far as to suggest John _"dig up his damn corpse and see for yourself!_"

He moved on after that, slowly but surely with help and support from Mrs Hudson, Stamford, Sarah and even Molly. Now nearly two years later, he could go through a hospital shift without thinking about Sherlock, and without hearing his disparaging remarks echoing inside John's head.

Then four weeks ago on a cold, wet day in January Sherlock _returned from the dead_.

John found out from Mrs Hudson's HD TV in between watching East Enders and Hollyoaks.

He instantly dashed to Stamford's place and drank himself stupid on whiskey, gin and Sainsbury's basic cider.

When he regained consciousness in Bart's A&E, he made a solemn vow that he would, for the sake of his mental health, pretend Sherlock was still dead.

Unfortunately it was easier said than done; Sherlock had somehow managed to get hold of his new phone number and began a concerted campaign that could only be described as obsessive stalking. Every morning there would be fifty or sixty text messages all from Sherlock demanding to meet up. Even Mycroft had turned up at the Baker Street flat with his ever present umbrella to politely interrogate John about his understandable but rather foolish principal of "pretending Sherlock never existed". John threw him out without any pretense at courtesy and demanded he tell Sherlock in no uncertain terms that John Hamish Watson never wanted to see Sherlock Holmes again. Mycroft might be footing half the rent but it was _his_ brother's fault for not giving due notice before disappearing off to play chase with an international criminal syndicate.

The trial of Moriarty's organization was headline news everyday for over three weeks. Posters, signs and even placards started to spring up with the slogan "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." John's blog now had more hits than Stephen Fry's twitter page. Advertising companies frequently offered to pay him vast sums of money if he would update. Newspapers reporters camped outside his front door for a week before they finally got the message that he wasn't going to talk about Sherlock. As far as John was concerned Sherlock Holmes was _still _dead.

Then things started to get creepy. Last week as he tried to collect his usually newspaper from the corner shop, the friendly Indian shop keeper apologized for running out of the Times but casually suggested he should share Sherlock Holmes' paper instead. John laughed it off saying that Sherlock never learnt to share and cheerfully paid for the Guardian instead, but as he was about to leave the shopkeeper started to talk in earnest.

"_Oh, Mr John, Mr Sherlock was in this shop not twenty minutes ago. He bought your copy of the Times because he was going to see you soon, sir." _

John had expected to feel a burst of annoyance but the icy feeling in the bottom of his stomach was definitely not anger or hate. All the way home, he found himself glancing over his shoulder as if he was afraid to see the solitaire of Sherlock Holmes lurking behind him.

Exactly why he was frankly terrified of meeting Sherlock face to face, John didn't know. His therapist had informed him that he didn't want to explore the natural sequence of emotions that Sherlock's return had generated, Sarah had told him to "man up" and Molly, well Molly hadn't been able get a word in edgeways during John's furious tirade regarding her complicit silence in the whole affair. He supposed he should really be thankful she hadn't called security or the police.

That evening John found his copy of the Times was lying on the mat under the letter box, looking terribly unassuming indeed.

The day after reading the Guardian because he didn't want to touch the Times, John was treated to a mysterious package at work. The hospital, as a general rule, never checked anybody's post so it could have contained anything from Lancet Journals to anthrax. The package was neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied by with white string but there was no address, only a neat cardboard tag that said:

"For John H. Watson"

"_Well, it was on the reception desk this morning,"_ the haggled receptionist had told him as she tried to force a frankly demented old lady to put her knickers back on.

He opened the package of course; John was not the paranoid type who liked to x-ray every suspicious package.

Inside the neatly wrapped package was a jumper, a brand new fluffy woolen jumper. It had broad black and white strips which looked surprising attractive. The note it came with on the other hand was anything but attractive.

"_Dear John, _

_I saw you yesterday shivering on your way home from work, so I bought you this jumper. Do not hesitate to ask if you need anything else. Also you appear to be drinking heavily every evening alone; I have taken the liberty of banning all outlets from selling you any more alcohol. _

_Looking forwards to seeing you soon,_

_Sherlock"_

With a stab of pure hatred, John screwed up the jumper and tossed it into the bin. He missed by half a metre and the jumper ended up draped over the pot plant like an oddly shaped tea cosy.

It took another five minutes before cold fear seeped into John's mind. Irrationally his brain was already wondering: "_what does 'see you soon' mean?"_

He was becoming paranoid and all because a resurrected corpse refused to leave him alone.

On the third day, having not been able to top up his liquor supply, John was feeling agitated and restless. He flopped tonelessly into his favourite armchair and reached for TV remote only to find that it was gone from its usual spot and in its place was a book that he didn't own.

"_Coping with Negative Emotions by Jennet Bisset" _

He burnt the book in Mrs Hudson's fireplace, whilst she looked on in confusion. John tried to drown the feeling of creeping fear by helping himself to some of her sherry but it couldn't wash away the horrid sensation that came with having his privacy and his home callously invaded.

On the fourth day as he rolled sleepily out of bed after a disturbed night with fitful dreams of being chased down a dark alley by a Belstaff coat, he stumbled into the kitchen only to find the empty tea container he had forgotten to refill was full of English Breakfast Tea bags and there was a mug of steaming hot tea waiting for him on the kitchen table.

Flabbergasted and suddenly feeling much more awake, John tore through the apartment looking for intruders. After finding absolutely no one, he ran downstairs to Mrs Hudson jabbering like a mental patient but she had not heard anyone come in. When he demanded she change all the locks, Mrs Hudson simply stared at him like he had lost his mind.

Now as he sat in the bar feeling slightly nauseous after enjoying his first pint of the week, he was almost glad his date had not bothered to turn up. He would not have been able to make a favourable impression with anyone whilst feeling like his limbs had turned to rubber. Strangely this weakened state wasn't particularly alarming, he was warm, comfortable and for once not being besieged by silent texts from Sherlock. He was been forced to turn off his ringtone when T-mobile informed him that they couldn't trace any one number to block.

As he gazed blearily around the bar his sluggish vision latched slowly onto a tall figure approaching his table. It looked oddly familiar, the long coat, the blue scarf, even the curly hair was triggering some sort of recognition but John's brain was too tired to bother joining up the dots.

"Hello John," said Sherlock as he sat down in the seat opposite.

John blinked lethargically and wondered whether he was still able to reply given the sorry state of his nervous system.

"Uh, hi Sherlock," he muttered uncertainly.

"Why don't you finish that pint and come with me?" suggest Sherlock reasonably.

Something in John's brain was telling him this was wrong. Instinctively he tried to move away from the suddenly menacing figure leaning towards him from across the table.

"No,"

A spasm of amusement flitted across Sherlock's face, but John was too preoccupied with staying upright to really notice.

"You didn't appreciate my presents," remarked Sherlock, sounding more menacing than hurt.

"They sucked!" slurred John, wondering why his mouth was refusing to obey him.

"They were helpful, I had to swallow my pride and take Mycroft's advice for you."

"You are dead," replied John as firmly as his failing mental state could allow.

"Not anymore John, come with me,"

With one swift motion Sherlock was standing next to him, hauling him up by the armpits. John was dimly aware that several other people in the bar were getting up to help Sherlock frog march him out of the pub.

"St – st –stop!" protest John but Sherlock was making insistent shushing noises.

"Close your eyes, John," he said softly, "we can have a proper chat when you wake up."

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><p><strong>AN: I really enjoy reader's thoughts, comments and criticisms of my work. It really helps me to improve my style and characterization. <strong>

**I have actually written most of the this story (its over 10K+). Chapters 1,2 and 3 are already on my livejournal page: wellingtongoose (dot) livejournal (dot) com. **


	2. Prologue Part 2

Series: Firestorm over London – Book 1

**Title: Crystals in the Storm Glass**

**Chapter: Prologue part 1**

**Summary: **After a disastrous reunion, Sherlock and John inadvertently find themselves becoming flatmates once more. When Irene Adler asks them to solve an international espionage case, Sherlock is willing to risk everything to win back John's admiration and love.

Genre: Action/Adventure

Rating: PG-13

Main Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler, Mycroft Holmes, "Anthea", Harry Pearce (Spooks), Erin Watt (Spooks),

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> I realize that the topics in this chapter may disturb some readers so I will warn you in advance. This is the second part of the prologue that is set eight months before the main story.

**Please review, much appreciated.**

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><p>When John awoke, it was to a surprisingly clear head and aching body. It took only a split second to realize his hands were tied above his head and he was lying on a four poster bed in the middle of an ostentatious room.<p>

The walls had gilded paneling that accentuated the ornate frames of the portraits of landscapes, horse and country houses. Flamboyant eighteenth century furniture was artfully arranged in a manner that emphasized the vastness of the room and increased its grandeur. A marble fireplace, large enough to accommodate even the tallest of men loomed distantly at the opposite end of the room.

The electric chandeliers were dimmed, casting a soft warm glow over the room that would have provided it with a comfortable atmosphere if John had arrived of his own free will. The bookshelves to his left spanned half the length of the room and contained several hundred leather bound tomes, each looking more expensive than the next. To his left, four huge sash windows were covered with heavily embroidered crimson curtains that spanned the entire height of the room. Even the ceiling was not free from decoration; the white plaster had been molded into an extensive number of elaborate decorations from beautiful two dimensional trees to tiny cherubs picking apples.

John himself was lying on what looked like a silk coverlet in a tasteful shade of gold that complement the rest of the décor. The only thing that was out of sync with the décor happened to be John himself.

He tested the bounds that secured him to the bed. Each ankle was tied to a post, whilst his heads were secured to a brass ring in the head board. The silk coverlet rustled very loudly in the silence of the room but it was suddenly joined by another sound.

John looked up to see Sherlock emerging from behind a high backed armchair, a leather bound volume still clutched in his left hand.

"You bastard, what have you done!"shouted John kicking out against his bounds.

Sherlock didn't reply at first but simply walked towards him at a leisurely pace. His Belstaff coat was casually draped over an armchair and he was wearing his signature sharp suit with open necked purple shirt. Once he was standing at the foot of the bed, he stood staring down at John with an air of satisfaction.

"You refused to return my text messages," replied Sherlock as if that was a perfect justification for drugging and kidnapping.

"You can't do this, it's illegal," cried John becoming more desperate. Sherlock looked thoroughly amused at his predicament.

"I don't think Lestrade is coming to you rescue, John," he said softly.

John felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise up in alarm and the finely tune sense of danger he had acquired in the army was now blaring like a fog horn. He took a moment to draw some deep breaths and calm his hammering heart. Whatever Sherlock had in mind, he appeared to be taking his time and drawing it out because Sherlock knew that no one was going to come looking for John until the morning. He could use that confidence to his advantage; he had to outmaneuver Sherlock somehow because he was definitely not getting out of his bounds any time soon.

He took a few moments to study Sherlock, not because he actually _missed _the exotic features but because there might be some clue to what his intentions were etched on his chiseled features.

A sudden memory, long buried by years of therapy, sprung to mind like a flash of lightening.

"_I am a high functioning sociopath"_

John remembered the first time he had heard Sherlock utter those words. After months of living with the curious, frighteningly intense and often insufferable man, John had concluded Sherlock could not be a true sociopath. Nor was Sherlock truly autistic, his understanding and masterful manipulations of complex human emotions put him beyond such a diagnosis. No, Sherlock Holmes was simply petulant, antisocial and unbelievable arrogant _because he wanted to be._

"How have you been, John?" asked Sherlock blandly. When John simply stared back at him with a mixture of fear and incredulity, Sherlock continued: "That is how you always like to start off conversations, isn't it?"

"It's polite," said John tightly, "and conventional"

"You never cared about convention, John, you craved danger and excitement, like me."

John resisted the urge to flinch at the comparison. He did indeed find unparallel exhilaration in risking his life but he had never done so for purely selfish reasons. He had never pursed his adrenaline addiction at a cost to another person's well being, unlike Sherlock.

"We are nothing alike, you selfish bastard," snarled John. He resisted the urge to fight his bonds; it would only make him looked more desperate.

For a moment, Sherlock looked confused but then he regained that insufferable air of quiet satisfaction,

"I beg to differ, John. You may not have my intellect but you are my counterpart in almost everything else. Once this tedious trial is over we can get back to doing what we both love and move onto the next step of our relationship."

John gaped back at Sherlock in utter astonishment. Did the man honestly believe that after all he had put John through they would ever get back together again?

"You seem surprised," remarked Sherlock, his deep blue eyes focused intently on John's face as if he was trying to penetrate John's mind.

"You – really -," spluttered John, anger, confusion and an entirely inappropriate feeling of amusement warring within him, "you have me tied to a _bed_!"

"You are fully clothed," reassured Sherlock, as if the act of bondage could be a perfectly normal social interaction to partake in on a Monday evening after work if both participants were wearing pants.

"I'm in pain, Sherlock, untie me!" demanded John, losing the battle with his own desperate desire to struggle and squirmed uselessly against the golden coverlet.

"I can't do that, how will I know that you will act rationally?"

Swallowing the urge to tell Sherlock exactly what John thought of him right now using every colourful word he knew in three languages, the doctor schooled his features into something resembling neutrality. For the moment, in his vulnerable state it was perhaps better to capitulate.

"I promise you Sherlock, if you untie me, I will stay and listen to whatever it is you have to say."

Sherlock didn't even bother to consider his offer; a positively feline smile spread across his exotic features lighting up his face with devilish delight.

"Dear John, you were never good at deception," whispered Sherlock with twisted affection. He started to move again, stalking forwards like a majestic leopard, taunting its prey with slow measure steps.

John's heart beat resumed its tympanic crescendo as he realized Sherlock was coming to loom over his prone form from the side of the bed, where he would inevitably be in touching distance.

"Look Sherlock, I know it was rude of me to completely ignore you," said John desperately.

The idea of being touched by Sherlock was suddenly equal parts terrifying and fascinating. It was the latter emotion that caused him the most concern. He was not attracted to Sherlock; the unfathomable emotion was definitely the result of whatever chemical had been used to spike his drink.

"Yes, it was rude," agreed the detective, his ice blue eyes still fixated on John's warm brown ones, "but you are forgiven."

Biting back a furious sarcastic remark, John tried to smile back weakly in the spirit of playing along. He might have looked like a hapless victim dancing along to the tune of a madman but Sherlock was definitely sane and John was definitely not going to be victimized.

"Sherlock, we can work this out," he lied, "but we must do it as equals."

The mere mention of the word _equals_ bought a crinkle to Sherlock's otherwise immaculate skin. The twist of his lips and tightening of his eyes formed a new expression that John had never seen before and found impossible to read.

"No," stated Sherlock firmly, "that would be starting the next part of our relationship on a lie."

"What next part?" blurted John, vaguely disturbed by the insistent way Sherlock had been repeating the phrase in their conversation.

Sherlock lean over the bed so he was hovering directly above John's prone form, his lithe body casting strange shadows across John's figure.

"Mycroft did warn me to take this slowly," he muttered pensively more to himself than the hapless man tied down in front of him.

"Well maybe you should listen to him," suggested John, feeling that he was missing something because his brain was being selectively obtuse.

"He doesn't know you like I do, John," asserted Sherlock with his unique blend of arrogance and determination. "I know you and I know it is best to be straight with you."

"Okay," muttered John, "why don't you do that then,"

There was a long pregnant pause as Sherlock lowered himself onto the side of the bed barely inches away from John's side. The man lean closer still until his face was taking up all of John's vision and the vast room suddenly felt very, very small. He could smell Sherlock; a sharp tangy scent that curled into his nostril and refused to dissipate.

"But the question is do you really want to hear what I am about to say?" asked Sherlock as he pressed on long slender hand against John's clothed chest.

John didn't respond, his vague but promising plan of escape had completely flown his mind. Where logic and survival instinct had been, a suddenly score of confused emotions erupted washing away coherent thought like a tidal wave.

"Can I take your silence for a yes?" whisper Sherlock, his lips just inches from John's face; his breath fanned across John's cheek like a gentle caress. John nodded dumbly. "I have had many months to think this through," continued Sherlock, his fingers now tightening against the fabric of John's shirt, "it took many months of logical deliberation to reach my conclusion."

The man looming above him suddenly decided they were too far apart, and John felt his eyes widen even further as Sherlock dipped his head so that their noses were aligned and almost touching. He gazed in astonishment at the close up view of Sherlock's alien yet aesthetically proportioned features. He had never been this close to his flatmate, not even in the strange feverish dreams he had of Sherlock in the long lonely nights. He didn't find Sherlock _attractive_…just fascinating.

"It took me so long to realise what was happening to me, John and it took me even longer to understand _you_. I did not believe I had the emotional capacity for _this _nor did I think that I could ever follow my instincts, but to think that you wanted to reciprocate… it was like an addiction, John. It crept up on me and when I managed to devote any thought to the problem it was already under my skin, an inoperable part of my being. At first I believe I could simply ignore _it_, being so naïve, I almost managed to convince myself this was nothing more than a byproduct of our arrangement. It was only after I left England and _you_ that I finally _understood_ what had happened to me over the years we spent together. Only after I was on a different continent was I finally able to come to terms with my…feelings."

John gaped in a most unflattering fashion, quite unaware that he was beginning to resemble a gruesome wax mannequin from the London Dungeon display.

Sherlock stared back down at him with a mad but brilliant gleam in his eye that was usually reserved for particularly pleasing corpses in the morgue. After a long minute of silence he started to look expectantly down at John with a small creeping smile that would normally send sane people running to the Psychiatric Crisis Team.

"Did you just say you had _feelings?_" asked John, eventually after finding his voice. It had been buried under the twin emotions of shock and disbelief.

"Yes, John," replied Sherlock almost impatiently but John could tell that he was, if not please, certainly satisfied that John was actually responding. "I'm glad you at least understood some of my speech."

"_You_ admit to having _feelings,_" reiterated John, deciding that he really needed to clarify this particular point before allowing his brain to move onto the rest of Sherlock's rambling, illogical speech.

"Honestly John," said Sherlock, his smile broadening swiftly, "you would never have stayed so long with me if you truly believed me a sociopath. Besides _love_ is not an emotion I have had much experience with."

John was already about to speak but his brain had finally finished processed the last part of Sherlock's reply, when his conscious mind interpreted the man's words, he choked on his own saliva. Great racking coughs tore through his chest as his autonomic nervous system tried to convince his rational mind that he was drowning. He was dimly aware of Sherlock slapping the middle of his chest with the flat of his palm, not exactly what the first aid books recommended but it did the trick. After a few more feeble coughs, John's complexion receded from bright red to slightly pink and he lay panting on the silk pillow like a victim of a shipwreck.

"You - you said _love,"_ muttered John though his ragged vocal chords.

Sherlock was gently rubbing circles on his chest over the place where he had delivered his punishing slaps. He was feeling too feeble to protest against Sherlock's hand as it soothed away the pain and left a strange, warm, tingling sensation in its wake.

"Yes, John, love," repeated Sherlock patiently like he was trying to teach a parrot to talk, "I _love_ you."

If John wasn't already pushing his respiratory drive to the limit he would probably have stopped breathing spontaneously at those words. Never in his wildest imaginations, worst nightmares or most lurid daydreams, had he visualized Sherlock Holmes saying those three incredibly powerful words.

He was speechless and not just because his brain had been starved of oxygen only a few seconds ago. There was no possible reply to those words. The social convention of repeating those three little words was completely out of the question. John was _not_ in love with Sherlock Holmes.

"I know this may be of some surprise to you. I did try to keep my emotions under tight control and of course you would not have noticed the changes in my behavior, you're not _Mycroft_. However I do owe the lazy, pompous, brother of mine; without his intervention I would never have been able to say these things to you, John."

John spluttered weakly, he wasn't sure whether he could even protest against Sherlock's words. The low baritone of his voice was drawling like a comfortable melody throughout the room and ensnaring John's bewildered senses. He felt terribly confused in that moment, a strange hitherto incomprehensible emotion was building inside him, and it was definitely not the paralyzing shock he had experienced minutes before.

"I am not a nice man, John," confessed Sherlock as he continued his monologue, "I am afraid there is much about our new relationship that you will not like but I cannot go on allowing us to deny what is only logical and sensible."

"What?" said John finally getting control of his tongue. The spell of Sherlock's voice was not quite broken but it had retreated enough so that his own thoughts could come to the fore and right now, his sense of danger was sending shivers down his spine.

"We are going to be a couple," stated Sherlock frankly as if it had already been ordained by the highest powers in the universe. "I will, of course, be the dominant partner, not to put too fine a point on it. As you already know, I am very possessive of what is _mine_ and therefore I shall take this moment before we officially begin to warn you,"

The previous expression of calm amusement and satisfaction disappeared so swiftly; like a switch had been thrown. Sherlock's face suddenly turned dark, his presence seemed to loom over John like a suffocating cloud. The maddening glint in his eye was replaced by stony coldness and his entire being seemed to vibrate with power.

"You _will not_ cheat on me, _ever_," breathed Sherlock, his voice so soft and yet filled with menace, "I will find out, _dear_ John and I will end it in the most humiliating and painful way possible. I demand your undivided attention at all times and I will not come second to anything in your life." Sherlock's fingers were digging into his chest through the thin fabric of his work shirt, hard enough to leave bruises. His breathing had accelerated and John could feel the swift pant of breath fanning across his cheeks. He lay there silently as he waited for Sherlock to resume his soliloquy.

"In return," Sherlock's voice softened, his fingers relaxed and he resumed gently stroking John's chest like one would pet a beloved cat, "I will protect you, care for you,". He bought his face closer to John's until he could whisper in his ear like an intimate lover, "and bring you _unimaginable_ pleasure."

Those sensually whispered words seemed to hit a nerve that John never knew existed and to his astonished mortification, he felt heat pooling almost instantly in his groin. He had never enjoyed bondage or being the submissive partner in any relationship. The feeling of arousal must have been a byproduct of his confused state or perhaps simply the side effect of whatever drug Sherlock had drugged him with.

Sherlock moved away and began to caress his face, running his calloused fingers over John's ragged features as if he was an explored mapping out a new and exotic location. The darkness had almost fled from Sherlock's expression, leaving a quite sense of pleasure etched on his face. In a way this expression was far more disturbing than the menacing darkness that Sherlock kept buried under a thin veneer of disinterested normalcy.

John wanted to run; he could feel his sympathetic nervous system gearing up for the flight of a life time. His heart was galloping away like a race horse, beating so fast that he could nt longer distinguish each individual gush of blood to his ears but instead his head was filled with a dull distant roar like a storm surging out at sea.

Sherlock was leaning down again directly above him so that their lips aligned.

_He is going to kiss me_, thought John.

Impossibly his heart beat continued to accelerate until he was sure the organ would tear itself out of his chest with such violent motion.

Sherlock bought his glistening lips to hover just above his own dry mouth. He could smell and _taste _Sherlock's breath in the air. A caustic mix of peppermint and tea with an acidic twist seeped into his mouth and lingered like poison. However his libido refused to behave rationally and the strange foreign scent was quickly starting to send mix messages through his mind. Suddenly he was confronted with the heat that had been building in his groin like a chamber of magma waiting to be unleashed. The arousal became impossible to ignore and patently visible through the thin fabric of his trousers.

_He couldn't allow this to happen. It would _destroy_ him. _

An idea formed in his mind like quick setting cement. He saw what he had to do to escape and his military training allowed him to shut out the impulse shooting up from amygdala to concentrate only on his plan.

"Please," he whispered breathlessly, "untie me,"

Sherlock's face broke into a smile but not one of pure amusement; mixed in with that expression was sadistic delight.

"Why?" he asked, his voice low and suggesting, "you should get used your place, my _love_,"

"I want – our first kiss – to be _unique_," breathed John, "please,"

Sherlock studied him intently from just a few centimeters away. Keeping his features, soft and vulnerable, John hoped that his acting skills would carry the day. However a treacherous part of his mind was telling him that he didn't really need to pretend he was attracted to the dark lean figure utterly dominating him. His body's reaction was enough to betray this to the world, but it wasn't _love, _it was merely a physical reaction to the right stimulus.

"No," replied Sherlock, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "I won't,"

Fear and panic almost overwhelmed John's senses when he heard the reply. He almost lost control of his carefully crafted expression as he realized this particular plan wasn't going to work. Sherlock _knew_ what he was planning, had _known _what he wanted to do possibly before John even formulated his escape plan. The ruthless genius was two steps ahead of him as usual and now John was completely at his mercy but helplessness wasn't new to a an army doctor. The sheer number of times he had been pinned down by enemy gunfire in Afghanistan had made him almost immune to the mind numbing despair an untrained civilian would be feeling right now. He drew on that military training to push away the ice cold terror spreading through his body and started to look for an alternative exit strategy.

"Why?" he whispered, keeping his voice quiet and low, "don't you trust me?"

Sherlock's smile became broader until a neat, white and unexplainably terrifying row of teeth was on full display. He looked almost like a leopard about to devour its prey alive.

"Don't you trust me, John?" demanded Sherlock in reply, his cold blue eyes dancing with anticipation.

"Yes," John answered without missing a beat, "I do trust you – despite everything,"

He hoped it sounded desperate enough that Sherlock might at least interpret some of the emotion to be genuine.

"Well then I see no reason why you would be feeling vulnerable right now," said Sherlock smugly.

The hand that was lying causally on his chest moved up sensually until it was wrapped around his neck. It was not precisely a choke hold but John knew that in a split second, Sherlock's fingers would be able to cut off the circulation to his head as effectively as any ligature. Disturbingly, the thought of being asphyxiated didn't dampen his libido. Instead he was shamefully aware that his body was reaction in exactly the opposite way.

"The bonds –" spluttered John, trying to keep his mind on track despite the warmth of SHerlocks fingers gently wrapped around his neck, "they're too tight."

He finished the sentence and resumed his labored breathing, hoping that Sherlock would at least loosen his bounds just a little. His fingers were really going numb and if he didn't get out of the bindings soon, both his hands might be completely useless in the very near future.

For a moment, Sherlock's arrogance gave way to something resembling concern and John took full advantage of the fact to wince slightly in pretend pain.

"Please," he begged again, trying to sound like a helpless submissive hostage.

The tone of his voice did the trick, and he noticed Sherlock looking both pleased and excited as he reached above John's head to loosen his bindings just a fraction. Almost immediately both of Sherlock's long slender hands returned to his neck and face.

His left hand started to caress John's cheek, drawing complex patterns across his oversensitive skin, whilst the right hand was dancing across John's shirt deftly unbuttoning the garment and pulling the sides apart to expose his vest.

"You look exquisite," whispered Sherlock more to himself than John, "a delectable feast for all the senses."

The detective bent down and placed his mouth above John's collar bone and started to kiss. It was a completely alien sensation to John. A hot, sharp, insistent and possessive feeling; more a brand than a kiss. Sharp teeth nipped at his skin hard enough to leave tell-tale marks in the morning but serving only as a prelude of things to come. John really didn't want to imagine what Sherlock might have had planned for the rest of the night, considering he knew no-one was going to come looking for John.

Suddenly, unexpectedly the left hand disappeared from his face and John shifted in surprise. Both hands reasserted their dominance much further down his body and John gave a cry of surprise. The left hand was pressed flat against his exposed stomach swift pushing up his vest until most of his chest was exposed to cool air. The right hand slipped even lower to the one place that caused John's rational mind to flee before the roar of his much more primitive nature. The long, slender fingers made short work of the practical barriers and soon the entire hand was inside his clothing, touching, kneading and stroking.

"Oh God!" cried John. His cerebrum demanded that he struggle to move away from the intrusion but his lower brain insisted he needed more contact with those taunting, tortuous fingers. All the while, Sherlock's mouth was still persisting in its exploration of John's collar bone. "Oh! Stop!"

He ended up writhing uselessly under the triple assault, a thin sheen of sweat started to form on his brow and he knew from past experience that he would soon lose all control. If he lost control that would be a complete disaster, he would never escape, he would become Sherlock's puppet for the rest of his life. It took all of his military discipline and sheer terror at the prospect of becoming a willing prisoner to overcome the sensations shooting through his body.

He took several deep shuddering breaths to regain control. Above him, Sherlock was now fully covering his prone body, using his weight to hold John still. The taller man was completely engrossed in his actions, like an addict drowning in his addiction. The right hand pulled out from under John's clothing to undo his belt and trouser button. Without breaking the kiss, Sherlock's hands swiftly tugged his trousers down to his knees despite John's best efforts at retaining his clothing. The effects of the last few minutes was clearly showing in the glistening wet patch that covered the front of his white briefs but they too were pulled down until he was fully exposed.

John couldn't allow this to go any further; Sherlock was suitably engrossed in his body, he needed to move now or it would be entirely too late.

Sliding his hands out of the loosen bonds was very difficult and excruciatingly painful but he had escaped from handcuffs in the past and this particularly stunt was much less damaging. His left hand came free first but he did remove it from the headboard, instead he looked down at Sherlock who was determinedly trailing a long line of deep insistent kiss down his chest to his navel. His right hand was harder to free and for a few moments he was afraid his movement would disturb Sherlock's concentration. However the other man seemed to interpret John's struggles as confirmation of his pleasure and John felt rather than saw Sherlock smile against the skin of his lower abdomen. The mere thought of Sherlock's face so close to the epicenter of his pleasure was suddenly enough to distract him from the task at hand.

He arched his back involuntarily towards the warm wet kiss just above his pubis, he was panting desperately again and his groin felt impossibly tight. If John wasn't so preoccupied with his escape plan, he would have died of pure embarrassment at his body's betrayal but at this particular moment, his instinctive reactions were keeping Sherlock distracted from his true intent.

When his right hand was finally free from the headboard, John considered his exit strategy. He had no idea which doors were locked and where each one lead to. He had no idea where in London he was, if he was even in London. He had to buy time to figure this out and that meant he needed to neutralize Sherlock, immediately.

With sudden brute force, honed by years of military training, he slammed his right knee into Sherlock's chest. The impact made a resounding thud as the detective jerked backwards stunned and winded. With one swift movement John sat up and tugged on his loose clothing, whilst rolling Sherlock's spluttering body off the bed with both his legs. As the lanky figure hit the floor, John jumped down beside him, giving Sherlock a hard kick to the back of the skull designed to concuss even the most stubborn of Taliban soldiers. Unfortunately the detective simply refused to stay down. With surprising speed, John saw Sherlock's arms move out to grab both his ankles and before he could bring himself to react, he was tipping forwards onto the soft cream carpet.

Suddenly Sherlock of on top of him, grappling his arms and trying to pin his bucking body to the floor but John had much more wrestling experience and within seconds he managed to turn the tables on his attacker. Hook his right leg over Sherlock's leg and wrapping his right arm behind his back and over Sherlock's shoulder he used the leverage and his upper body strength to turn them both over so he was lay onto of the taller man. In a split second he turned around so that he was sitting face to face with his attacker and would be rapist. Sherlock's arms, skilled at boxing, tried to pummel him with punishing blows but John had already moved his head out of reach.

Clearly the other man wasn't used to boxing from a disadvantaged position and John was swiftly able to land a punch just above his jaw. It didn't sedate Sherlock in the slightest, so he punched the infuriating man again and again and again until he stopped moving altogether.

When the cloud of adrenaline and rage cleared, John stared down at the prone and bloodied form of his former best friend. Blood was splattered around Sherlock's head like a disgusting red halo of spots. His eyes were already swollen and his nose was barely recognizable. For a split second, John thought he was going to thrown up right then and there but he managed to hold the bile in. Dazed, disgusted and reeling with nausea he clambered off the still body and staggered towards the nearest ornate oak door, desperate to get out of this nightmare.

The door wasn't even locked, Sherlock had been supremely confident. The darkened hallway outside was just as ostentatious as the room he had left. The marble and oak paneling extended down the long corridor at the end of which was a grand flight of stairs going up and down. Without any hesitation John ran down the steps like a criminal fleeing the scene of his crime. The grand entrance hall was huge and his staggering limping footsteps echoed like a blaring siren throughout the building.

He was almost at the front doors, a dark foreboding double set of heavy wooden barriers to his freedom, when they swung open of their own accord.

Standing in the entrance was Mycroft Holmes, clutching his umbrella and behind him stood a team of armed policemen, each with their weapon drawn.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I love feedback and I love to discussing writing style and characterization with my readers so please do leave your comments!<strong>

**I have always thought that if Sherlock were to have a relationship he would inevitably be the dominant partner. I feel that his characterization in the BBC series shows that he is very self-centered and arrogant, expecting the whole world to operate solely for his benefit so I would not surprised if he was incredibly possessive and demanding as romantic partner. Additionally his lack of social skills means that he would not go about wooing his chosen subject in a conventional way. Sherlock is perfectly able to _act_ normal when he wants to but for John he feels he can and should show his true self. Of course you probably have a completely different idea. **

**I have actually written most of the this story (its over 10K+). Chapters 1,2 and 3 are already on my livejournal page: wellingtongoose (dot) livejournal (dot) com.**


	3. Auspicious Beginnings

**Series**: Firestorm over London - Book 1

**Title:** Crystals in the Storm Glass

**Summary:** Post- Reichenbach. After a disastrous reunion, Sherlock and John inadvertently find themselves becoming flatmates once more. When Irene Adler asks them to solve an international espionage case, Sherlock sees a chance to possess the one thing he's always wanted: John. Dark!Sherlock.

**Chapter: 1. **Auspicious Beginnings

**Genre:** Action/Adventure

**Rating:** PG-13

**Main Characters:** John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler, Mycroft Holmes, "Anthea", Harry Pearce (Spooks), Erin Watt (Spooks),

* * *

><p><strong>The Old Bailey, Central London,<strong> 

Kitty Riley rushed pasted the Muscian's Church, dodging a crowd of Chinese Tourists and their strange plethora of waterproof clothing. The Old Bailey was just in sight and even from across the busy thoroughfare she could hear the frantic shouts of investigative journalists crowding around the entrance to England's largest criminal court.

She was late to the gathering and from past experience she already knew exactly which martial arts maneuvers she would employ to get a decent place amongst the ravenous throng of reporters and paparazzi. It was rather ironic that only two years ago, she had been dashing across the same street in a low cut silk top and a deerstalker hat hoping to impress the world's only consulting detective into giving her an interview.

That story had catapulted her stuttering career into the big leagues. Only two months after Sherlock Holmes' 'suicide' she had been offered a desk with the Daily Mail, reporting real news and within six months she found herself flying out to Tunisia to interview the insurgents who had over thrown a tyrannical monarchy. Some people in the office had thought Sherlock Holmes' miraculous return from the dead with enough evidence to shut down the largest criminal network in the world would be her undoing but Kitty Riley had a way of making herself indispensible.

Squeezing awkwardly around the front of a dark car parked illegally on the double red lines across the street from the court house, Kitty peered into the window at the strange couple sitting placidly inside the Audi. For a moment she almost recognized the woman, a strikingly beautiful face framed with voluptuous brown waves, who looked more suitable on the set of Hollywood than the streets of London. For a moment she pushed down the stab of pure jealously and ran a hand through her own wind torn hair.

The crowd of reporters where already working themselves into a frenzy despite the doors of the Old Bailey being tightly shut. The man of the hour had yet to make an appearance. Kitty efficiently elbowed a stout, heavy set photographer in a vulnerable region and pushed passed him to get a better view of the dais once Sherlock Holmes did eventually grace them with his insufferable presence. She supposed that he would be willing to at least throw some insults her way, after her instrumental role in disgracing his reputation, but then she realized that being the arrogant fool he was, Sherlock Holmes would distain to even acknowledge her presence.

* * *

><p>"Brace yourself, Mr Holmes," muttered a burly police officer.<p>

_Twice married, three children, one Dalmatian – not pure breed, suffered a recent football injury, hoping to move to another division._

Sherlock didn't bother to acknowledge the man's existence, his mind was already moving on from processing the inconsequential policemen to tackling the baying crowd outside. It was cold comfort to know that this time they were not out for his blood. As the doors swung open automatically, he was greeted by hundreds of painfully bright camera flashes accompanied by a cacophony of clicks, screams and garbled words.

"Mr Holmes, what can you tell us about Moriarty?"

"How did you fake your death!"

"Is it true you're gay?"

"Where will you go from here?"

"What is your connection to Whitehall?"

"Is it true that Moriarty sold nuclear weapons information to the Iranians?"

"How does it feel to have your name cleared?"

"Will you be back working for the Yard!"

The last question thrown into the cesspit of noise, sweat and desperation, caught Sherlock's mind and he almost wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"I do not work for the Yard," he sneered condescendingly at the unfortunate woman who had caught his attention.

_Unsuccessful diet, debt problems, left handed, looking for casual sex._

"Are you going back to solving crimes, Mr Holmes?" cried another journalist to his left.

_Pakistani, drug habit, allergic to pollen, very ambitious_

"Of course," he snapped and pulled the lapels of his Belstaff coat up against the bracing chill of the wet and windy British Summer. Without acknowledging any other reporters he strolled purposefully down the steps, allowing the crowd to part before him like grass to the wind. He steadfastly ignored the sardonic glare of Kitty Riley as he moved towards the pavement in the hopes that a taxi would appear from around the corner to take him back to the one place he could truly call home.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Kensington Uppers General Medical Practice, North West London<span>**

John Hamish Watson sat in the lounge at Kensington Uppers General Medical Practice doing the Times crossword whilst dunking biscuits into his English Breakfast Tea. It was twelve o'clock and the extras from the morning surgery had all been dispensed with repeat prescriptions, sound advice and cheerful small talk. Kensington was what his old teacher would call a 'boring posh white area' where the most interesting disease happened to be ingrown toe nails. After a morning referring five women to the Harley Street Clinic for designer vaginas, he had decided to indulge his sweet tooth and delay the home visits he had lined up for the afternoon.

He looked up when Sarah strolled in, wearing one of her trademark pastel coloured business suits.

"Morning," he grunted casually as she approached,

"Have you seen the news?" she asked with wide eyed wonder, "Sherlock -,"

"Yes I know," he snapped and then instantly regretted that tone of voice. "I don't want to talk about him,"

"It's a pity we didn't work out," she said with amusement bubbling in her voice, "I'd always blamed Sherlock but now I realize it was nothing to do with him at all." John scowled for a moment as he tried to suppress the memories of the dark smoky circus and the murderous Chinese Triads hell bent on executing him for being Sherlock Holmes. How he wished he had punched Sherlock a whole lot more when he still had the chance.

"Well, if it helps, I regret it too," muttered John turning back to his crossword and dispelling the unpleasant feeling of being scrutinized by Sarah's deep brown eyes.

"Eight months is a long time to be mad at someone," whispered Sarah as she perched on the edge of his sofa.

"Hey even if I wanted to apologise, the restraining order would put me back in jail before you can say "Die Sherlock!" I think I have enough criminal charges to be getting on with don't you?" asked John.

Sarah broke into another heartwarming smile and then started to giggle incessantly.

"Do you find the idea of me in jail so funny?" demanded John trying to sound theatrically wounded.

"No," she replied between bursts of laughter, "I just haven't met a middle aged doctor with an ASBO!"

"That was_his_ fault too, you know," muttered John darkly, as he found himself unconsciously twisting the newspaper between his fingers.

"Okay, so you don't want to make up with him, but what will you do when he moves back into the Baker Street Flat?"

"He won't," replied John with a tone of finality that cut the conversation down and went back to studying his newspaper.

"I think you need to sort this out," said Sarah placidly. She was very much used to his abrupt manner, which she heartily welcomed after suffering through the eight months of pure angst since Sherlock Holmes' return. It was rather ironic that despite having only seen the man once, life at the surgery had now been split between before The Return and after The Return. "Even if you despise Sherlock -,"

"I do," replied John flatly

"- you should still make it right with Molly," That was her trump card.

John continued to stare with great concentration at the crossword puzzle but she could see the muscle in his jaw subtly twitching as it was apt to do when he was stressed.

"She _lied_ to me," he muttered breathlessly,

"Well she had a good reason, she was trying to keep you safe -,"

"I don't need her to keep me safe, I'm the one supposed to keep her safe!"

John's voice reached an alarming crescendo before dissipating feebly into silence. Thankfully they were alone in the brightly lit lounge and John finally relaxed again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered sheepishly, "I just – I'm finally coping with this situation, my therapist says I'm finally finding my equilibrium again."

"Maybe," suggested Sarah softly, "it's not your equilibrium that you need to find."

"I need to… distance myself. I need to live the normal life I have right now. I can't afford to do _that _all over again."

"Losing Sherlock?"

"No!" snapped John in exasperation, "_Why_ does everyone think it's all about _Sherlock_? _It's not about Sherlock!_"

From the look in Sarah's eyes, he knew she didn't believe him.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Baker Street, North West London<span>**

Standing outside 221B Baker Street for the first time in over two years, Sherlock felt strangely empty. He had not expected a disproportionate emotional response, like that experienced by the ordinary people but he had expected – hoped - that he would feel some form of happiness to look upon his old home once again.

Eight months in witness protection under Mycroft's tyrannical thumb of micromanagement had left him gasping for freedom. Today at 11.20am, he was finally declared a free man. The first cab ride he had since coming back to London reinvigorated his senses and left his heart pounding with adrenaline as he sped through the familiar streets. He had half a mind to check up on his homeless contacts by the Embankment on the way to Baker Street but he was too excited for a diversion.

The front door looked the same as he remembered it, despite two additional years of wind and rain. The locks had been changed but thanks to Mycroft's intervention, two sets of house keys were resting in his coat pocket. The sash windows of the first floor flat were covered by the same flowery curtains. It felt almost as if the last two years had never happened and Sherlock was simply returning home after a long case successfully solved.

He was not sentimental enough to actually believe John might be standing behind him, grinning in triumph with one breath and cursing Sherlock with another but for a short moment he almost allowed his imagination to conjure up the plain, care worn face of his only friend. Over the years Mycroft had sent him pictures, small grainy black and white photos taken from the CCTV cameras that dotted London. John looked well; no physical signs of psychological stress and he had tapered off his therapist appointments long before Sherlock managed to return to England. Dr Watson had moved on with his life as surely as Sherlock had known he would but the satisfaction of this correct calculation was almost lost amongst the strange, alien and uncomfortable feelings that plagued him throughout the two years of his extended exile.

_Perhaps you merely miss him_, Mycroft had suggested. That particular remark had earned his brother twenty uninterrupted minutes of verbal evisceration from which most people would never psychologically recover.

He did not _miss_John.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Thames House, MI5 Headquarters, Central London<span>**

Sir Harry Pearce shook the sparkling layer of drizzle from his long overcoat with the tenacity of a British Bulldog. It was good metaphor to describe him with both metaphorically and physically: a heavily built man with thick set features and impressive cheek jowls that reminded everyone of England's favourite breed of dog. Over a decade's worth of desk work at the Grid, a colloquial name for Section D of MI5, had made him a rotund figure but underneath the unevenly distributed layers of adipose tissue was a wall of honed muscle ready to take the fight to Her Majesty's Enemies.

The weather outside was frightful, even measured against abysmal expectations the British had for summer. At only 7 degrees Celsius with wind speeds of 20 miles an hour, it felt more like winter in the arctic but Harry enjoyed the wet and wild days more than the sedate hazy sunshine that better summers might bring.

A cursory glance around his office told him that none of his possessions had been disturbed. Wearily he lowered himself into the desk chair which had faithfully supported his enlarging backside for ten long years. He dumped the large manila folder on the polished mahogany desk with a careless thud and proceeded to pour himself a glass of water.

Through the internal window of his office he could see the rest of his team 'efficiently' clearing the day's tasks. Tariq Masood, a small, lithe, Asian man barely out of adolescence, was poking Callum Wood, a much larger Cambridge educated fellow, in the arm with a biro whilst Dmitri Levendis, the handsome Greek, look on with a superior smile.

The only person who was missing from this pitifully childish scene was Erin Watt but of course if she had been here, Harry doubted the situation would have deteriorated so far. Perhaps once he finished reading the unnecessarily thick file, he should go and straighten the boys out. He had not signed on to this job for another ten years to be a school master but a spy need many talents and controlling unruly youngsters was just one of them.

The new file currently dominating his desk was as thick as the Oxford English Dictionary and looked to be just as dry. The manila front was marred by signs of overuse and the red letters on the front were beginning to fade into a dull pink. He reached out with his stout fingers and traced the words he saw there:

HOLMES, SHERLOCK

**CLASSIFIED LEVEL 4**

It was no surprise that a man with the name "Holmes" would end up with a highly classified file, although Harry Pearce had been reliably informed that there was nothing worthy of note inside apart from a few embarrassing pictures of the subject wondering around butt naked in Regent's Park. It takes all sorts to make a world but Harry preferred if he didn't have to personally encounter all the sorts.

As he was about to turn the cover, the most annoying piece of equipment on his desk started to ring. The plain black phone, undistinguishable from the other two identical models, had a direct link to Whitehall outside of the normal telephone exchange. It served as a one way feed system whereby Harry Pearce was drowned with the whims of self-important civil servants who had no idea how a country should be protected. The weather and his arthritic knee had made him itch for a verbal fight.

However as he grabbed the receiver he realized to his dismay that the number was blocked. There was only one office in the whole of Whitehall that had the clout to keep MI5 in the dark and it contained the one person Harry emphatically did not want to speak to at this moment.

"Hello, Harry," came the calm, soothing voice of Mycroft Holmes, "how is the gardening going?"

"I don't garden, Mycroft," snapped Harry, "what do you want?"

"Shouldn't two old school friends catch up after a whole summer apart?" asked Mycroft in his most innocent voice.

"I don't know why you bother," said Harry curtly, "I have your brother's file on my desk and I'm damn well going to read it!"

"Oh dear fellow," replied Mycroft sounding almost bored, "I've not called about Sherlock's file, if I did not want you to see it, it wouldn't be on your desk."

Mycroft always had the strange and highly useful talent of sounding incredibly menacing with even changing his tone of voice but after spending three years at Harrow sharing a room with the man Harry was not intimidated in the slightest.

"Well, get on with it and stop wasting my time," demanded Harry,

Outside his office, Erin Watt had returned with three cups of coffee and was judiciously trying to decide which poor soul would not be getting a caffeine fix. Her long wave chestnut brown hair was still immaculate despite having braced the wind and rain outside.

"I understand you have refused Erin Watt a promotion," said Mycroft blandly, "that really won't do."

"I am not considering applications for section chief until next month, Mycroft, live with it,"

"Dear Harry, must we continue this silly feud? We are after all working for the same government."

Harry sneered despite himself and wondered sheepishly if he could slam down the receiver without seeming too much like a child throwing a tantrum.

"You work only for yourself, Mycroft," spat Harry contemptuously

"I assure you I do not," replied Mycroft, his voice suddenly turning ice cold in a fraction of a second.

A small sliver of self-preservation informed Harry that it was best not to take this particular argument too far.

"I am not starting the application process right now," muttered Harry, "I'm busy what with the Olympics coming up and the situation in Bolivia,"

"Then why do you not just promote Erin and forget about this whole bureaucracy?" asked Mycroft softly.

"Can you imagine what the Human Resource managers were going to say?"

"Sir Harry Pearce," said Mycroft mockingly, "head of Her Majesty's Secret Security Services is afraid of the HR department."

"You haven't met Mrs Hughes," hissed Harry, "besides the procedure is mandatory, whether or not I am afraid of HR."

"I shall deal with Mrs Hughes, she happens to have a soft spot for King Charles Spaniels. You get on with the paperwork for Erin's promotion; I would like her to have level 4 clearance before the end of the week."

"Fine," growled Harry, seeing that he had been bluntly outmaneuvered once again, "what do you want me to tell her?"

"Oh she already knows, old chap," replied Mycroft casually, "well cherrio and I do hope you will join me for lunch at Whitehall tomorrow, 12pm."

Without giving Harry the chance to callously turn down his invite, Mycroft Holmes hung up the phone.

_Bloody Bastard! Always determined to have the last word._

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><p><em><strong>AN:<strong> **Please leave comments/review. I always love constructive criticism for my writing as it helps me to improve my style and content.**_

_I love to hear readers' reactions to the characters, new and old, as well as points for improvement of characterization, please don't hesitate to say: "I don't think Sherlock would do that," or "X happens but it's not very canon compatible,"_

_**I am also looking for Beta for this story, please tell me if you might be interested.**  
><em>

_**Extras including, cover art and the next chapter are on my homeage: wellingtongoose dot livejournal dot com. If you would like me to reply to your comments/reviews please comment on my livejournal entry because I can just hit the reply button!**_


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